University of Virginia Library

40. XL.
THE COMING MAN AND HIS DISCIPLE.

HIGH on a throne of mountain rubbish, Murk exalted
sat. At his feet yawned the craggy mouth
and insatiable gullet of that everlasting bore, the
shaft. He was alone, and heavily contemplative; the miners,
at news of the murder and the loss of the gold with which
they were to be paid, having deserted in a body, strangely
regardless of the interests of humanity hinging on the work.
Only Jack the crow remained, perched on the idle windlass,
and mournfully inquiring ever and anon, —

“Where's Biddikin?”

To which corvine observation the philanthropist deigned no
response. What was he meditating, sitting there with his
nose between his knees, gazing so steadily? Was he rapt in
humanitary yearnings; lost in that love so universal and tender,
that it would not suffer him to harm even a mosquito, —
unless it was “necessary”? Was he contemplating his messiahship,
and dreaming of future followers? or was it one
of those moments of doubt to which even the greatest are subject?

for the face of him was troubled. Under his eye, in a
chink of the embankment, waved a little glimmering cobweb,
woven there by a small brown spider, to whose shrewd needle
point wit the work no doubt appeared prodigious, — the one
great affair of the universe. And did the human spider perceive
that this was but a type of his own fine-spun theories; that,
though he schemed to take in the whole world in his philosophy,
he had spanned but the narrowest crevice, and entangled
but one or two poor flies, while the deep solid facts of
life lay all around him, mountainous, unfathomed, and untouched?

No, ye scoffers! Murk saw no such thing. Himself the
great pivotal mind of the age, the patriarch of the new divine
order, the coming man that had come, — this he saw most
fixedly; and still believed that his messiahship was just the
thing for this planet, if it could only be made to work. At
the same time, he perceived that difficulties were growing complicated
and dangerous. And so the face of him was troubled;
and at the sound of footsteps he gave, it must be owned,
an unphilosophical start.

Peace, O patriarch! Steady, pivotal mind! Fear not,
Moses Murk! The comer is thy fly, thy disciple; in other
words, Mad Biddikin.

“What tidings, my son?”

From thridding the woods, from scaling the mountain-side,
fiery-hot and panting, the youth flung himself down under the
embankment.

“Is he coming?” he whispered, turning up his glittering
inflamed eyes at the philanthropist.

Murk, from his throne of rubbish, could discern no one;
and Mad, recovering breath and audacity, related in few
rapid words his adventure, and what led to it.

“Now, where's your spirits, your powers?” he scoffed.
“They've got us into a scrape: now let's see 'em get us out
of it!”

The soul of Moses seemed to sweat inwardly for a minute
with strong perturbation. Then the old fishy shine came into
his eyes, and the dull self-satisfied gleam into his face.

“My son, we did what seemed necessary. Whatever is,
is right: let that comfort you. We shall be taken care of,
my son.”

“Yes, with a vengeance!” blasphemed the disciple. “I
only wish we had that gold, and could once get clear of this
cussid town.”

“That might be well,” said the philanthropist after another
soul-sweating moment. “When Moses had smitten the
Egyptian, he fled to Midian. I see in those events my own
history and mission shadowed forth very remarkably. I am
clearly the Moses of the latter-day Exodus, to lead the world
out of spiritual bondage. I, too, was an adopted son; and it
was with peculiar significance that the name was given to me.
Mo-yses, — `drawn out of the water.' I fell into a tub
of suds when I was beginning to creep, and was drawn out.
Though I think there is an interior meaning to that: the waters

signify worldliness, from which I was early rescued, and
set apart for this work. Swedenborg corroborates!” — with
a sallow smile, wagging his fist.

“Swedenborg be blowed!” said the disciple. “I don't
believe you understand yourself what you're talking about.
But I know one thing: if you are Moses, there's an Aaron
coming!” — Mad's excitement bursting out into savage hilarity.
“`Says Aaron to Moses, Le's cut off our noses; says
Moses to Aaron, It's the fashion to wear 'em!' But I
swear, if you want to keep in fashion, and carry that extensive
fly-roost round with you much longer, you'd better think
of something else just now, and shut down on that humbugging
cheap talk! — See any one?” and Mad cautiously got up
from the rubbish where he had been whitening his flanks, and
peered over the embankments.

“It seemed advisable to intrust the chief with the gold, —
for I had not yet assumed my authority, — though it might
be well if we had it now,” said the philanthropist. “Cannot
we conceal ourselves until the means of flight present themselves?”

“There never was such a chance to hide,” said Mad. “I
can take you to places down among the rocks where we could
live weeks, and never get found, if we only had plenty of
fodder.”

“Indeed, fodder, as you playfully term it, will be highly
necessary,” observed the philanthropist; for he had not
dined, and the sun was going down upon his fast.

“We can slip into the house to-night, and get some. I
wish I knew where that constable is! Can you run, Moses?”

“I have not remarkably gifted legs,” Murk admitted.

“But there's one thing: if he comes alone, we'll be
enough for him. We'll chuck him into this hole, and pile in
rocks on to him.”

“I am impressed that we had better be looking for the
places of refuge you tell of.”

“Well, then, come!” — and, after some circumspection,
Mad hurried the philanthropist down the ledges to the crags.
They stealthily neared the verge to avoid discovery from below,
and looked over the frightful precipice. “There, down
in them rocks,” said Mad. “Foller me.”

“But will it be possible to descend here?” asked Murk,
somewhat aghast at the prospect.

“We must! We can slide down on our bellies behind
the crag till we get into the bushes there; then we can't
be seen, above or below. Do as I do. Feet first.”

“Hold!” said the philanthropist, “There is surely a
brother!”

“Where?” — and Mad put his chin over the angle of the
crag to look, and discovered far down, by the blocks of the
ice-bed, a form which even at that distance could be identified
by a keen eyesight.

The “brother” was Aaron Burble.

“He's looking for me!” Mad muttered. “If I had a
Minie rifle, I'd wipe him out!”

“It may be necessary to advance him to higher spheres,”
was the dry response; which, in the patriarch's dialect, meant
precisely what Mad's slang meant; namely, to make Rhoda
Burble a widow.

“There! — he's going into the timber! Think he's seen
us?”

“Let us withdraw,” said Murk. “Without especial aid
from my divine guides, I could never descend the precipice
alive. I am impressed to return to the shaft. There I will
open up to you some ideas on the subject of our dilemma,
which will be edifying.”

And, hastening back over the ledges on his not remarkably
gifted legs, he sat down by the windlass, and unfolded his plan
of the campaign, which we will not stop to consider now.

“I perceive,” he then added, “that all that has been done
thus far has been needful. The chief was to be displaced:
and it may be necessary that he should suffer a change at
the hands of the law;” i.e., be hung. “How our work here
is to be resumed, and the treasure secured, I do not yet see
clearly; but the way will doubtless be opened.” And he
thoughtfully rubbed the Mosaic nose.

“Gammon!” said Mad in great disgust. “I tell ye,
this thing is played out. About the other business: I'll do it,
if you say so.”

“It seems to me best; for I can never trust my limbs over
the precipice,” replied Moses.

And they proceeded to put his plan into execution.